I walk over to the side-table and pick up your picture.
A fine film of dust has settled
on the top edge of the frame,
dulling the silver gild.
I slowly trace my finger across the surface,
restoring some of its shine, then look at my finger tip
and the powdery grey matter.
I blow it away.
Let it settle somewhere else.
10 x 8.
Black and white.
500th of a second at F4 to reduce the depth of field.
Blurred the background to set you in sharp relief
I remember the moment
I took this picture.
I used my old Pentax.
‘Go digital’ I was told.
And finally I have . . with some regret.
I touch the glass where your hair lies.
It’s cold.
A barrier.
But I can still feel the fine strands of your hair
and remember how they run between my fingers
perfect threads of white silk falling to your shoulders.
I remember its freshness,
like spring rain and honeysuckle
carrying the seductive whisper of musk.
Your skin: aged, flawed . . yet perfect.
Every line so familiar.
Every line slowly etched over time.
A record of your life’s journey.
My thumb lightly traces the flat contours of your face.
Down your cheek.
Across your mouth.
And along that strong jaw-line
– so set with purpose and pride –
then down to the curve of your neck.
I feel the brittle, pure glass.
I remember your warm soft, giving skin.
My smile is reflected in your lips – a natural easy smile,
always freely given.
And your lips . . .
I can hear your laugh. I can hear your words. Skipping softly across the air.
The monochrome grain of the picture holds you –
caught in that split second of time.
And yet you’re timeless
and I love you
and I know that love will last
for all the time I have left.
One final caress and I place you down to rest on the side-table.
Then turn as you come into the room and stand by my side.
I touch your hair, perfect threads of white silk,
fresh like spring rain and honeysuckle,
carrying that seductive whisper of musk.
How the tiredness drags on,
more of the same, day after day,
energy levels are low,
yet still I keep on,
keep on going, working, helping,
breathing, eating, drinking, doing,
hoping,
wondering,
when the routine will end
when lifes adventure will start,
when will be my time?.
Good things come to those who wait,
thats what they say,
so in the meantime, I console myself
by escaping, into the wondrous world of the imagination,
through the printed word,
books are fast becoming my solace.
My imagination sets me free, from the hum-drum,
brings stories to life,
through the words of others,
who expertly convey them -
authors who paint the canvas,
make us love and hate characters,
feel their pain and rejoice at their accomplishments,
back the underdogs
and hope for the villains to receive their due comeuppance.
Reading can open a whole new world,
to those who take the time to let themselves get absorbed,
it can be a brilliant ability,
to calm the dullness of an unfruitful, even dreary routine,
to give yourself a bit of time each day,
to be taken away,
see what alternative life you could have been living
and hope all ends well.
Is ego your amigo
And your id somewhere hid
Super- ego , super hero ?
Can you find out what it did
Why split it to a trio
So make one become a three
I don’t think I’m that complex
I’m just a simple me.
Is ignorance bliss?
I quietly ponder...wondering,
wishing, fed up of worrying,
not knowing but fearing,
something may be a warning
things may be about to go terribly wrong.
There's always something,
that something which is not quite right,
something that seems to stick out to my senses,
like a metaphorical sore thumb...
quick, sound the siren! something isn't right,
it can't be! not again?!
the physical pain may barely or not at all even be felt;
yet my brain screeches at me, tugging at my attention,
swearing that what I've noticed, felt, detected
is a clear sign of some sort of impending doom -
there must be SOMETHING wrong.
I must act now, mustn't I? but what will this mean?
there are so many different types of pain,
the potential hanging over me can be dizzying.
If only I didn't keep worrying, about the 'what if's?',
seemingly presume the worst could always be possible,
no matter what I come across,
big or small,
it all takes a tiring toll.
Apologies for my absence again - the glorious weather made it hard to stay in I had a barbecue with a friend in a forest on Wednesday, it were grand I'll try to catch up a bit today, after posting a poem
Beautiful Izzy - the need to fly seems to be a universal one. I wrote a similar piece called Flying once. 'The sinkening sun' is a lovely term, it sounds ancient
When a tree falls in the wood are you certain
If no witness of descent to the ground
That a crash was made by the timber
If no person about heard the sound.
I remember having a discussion years ago about this BB :kitty: The chap I spoke to said it was arrogant of us to think there's no sound because we're not present
It remains a perplexing thought and I enjoyed your take on it
sometimes a Squirrel stops to choose
sometimes a Squirrel stops.
You're one of life's great observers Sandy - which is always an advantage when you write poetry :kitty: I love squirrels too and your ode filled my mind with them! Excellent
'Dwindling elves', great words to say and read. I'll have to try and drop that into a conversation. I love it ! :cool:
How strange BB I needed a phrase, so I opened up The Lord Of The Rings at random. 'Dwindling elves' jumped out at me and I nicked it, just like you did with Coldplay
It may actually have been 'The dwindling of the elves' - good old JRR :kitty:
You're one of life's great observers Sandy - which is always an advantage when you write poetry :kitty: I love squirrels too and your ode filled my mind with them! Excellent
Have you ever seen the mission impossible squirrel?:D
Apologies for my absence again - the glorious weather made it hard to stay in I had a barbecue with a friend in a forest on Wednesday, it were grand I'll try to catch up a bit today, after posting a poem
Be thankful for the good things, the blessings we have,
acknowledge we are small beings on this planet
What a lovely poem Izzy, I like the way you compared us to trees. It must have taken ages to write, as it's quite a lengthy piece. Thanks for sharing this
Comments
It's all great but I really like this part. 'Rooted to the ground' that's what we all can feel like at times.
A fine film of dust has settled
on the top edge of the frame,
dulling the silver gild.
I slowly trace my finger across the surface,
restoring some of its shine, then look at my finger tip
and the powdery grey matter.
I blow it away.
Let it settle somewhere else.
10 x 8.
Black and white.
500th of a second at F4 to reduce the depth of field.
Blurred the background to set you in sharp relief
I remember the moment
I took this picture.
I used my old Pentax.
‘Go digital’ I was told.
And finally I have . . with some regret.
I touch the glass where your hair lies.
It’s cold.
A barrier.
But I can still feel the fine strands of your hair
and remember how they run between my fingers
perfect threads of white silk falling to your shoulders.
I remember its freshness,
like spring rain and honeysuckle
carrying the seductive whisper of musk.
Your skin: aged, flawed . . yet perfect.
Every line so familiar.
Every line slowly etched over time.
A record of your life’s journey.
My thumb lightly traces the flat contours of your face.
Down your cheek.
Across your mouth.
And along that strong jaw-line
– so set with purpose and pride –
then down to the curve of your neck.
I feel the brittle, pure glass.
I remember your warm soft, giving skin.
My smile is reflected in your lips – a natural easy smile,
always freely given.
And your lips . . .
I can hear your laugh. I can hear your words. Skipping softly across the air.
The monochrome grain of the picture holds you –
caught in that split second of time.
And yet you’re timeless
and I love you
and I know that love will last
for all the time I have left.
One final caress and I place you down to rest on the side-table.
Then turn as you come into the room and stand by my side.
I touch your hair, perfect threads of white silk,
fresh like spring rain and honeysuckle,
carrying that seductive whisper of musk.
more of the same, day after day,
energy levels are low,
yet still I keep on,
keep on going, working, helping,
breathing, eating, drinking, doing,
hoping,
wondering,
when the routine will end
when lifes adventure will start,
when will be my time?.
Good things come to those who wait,
thats what they say,
so in the meantime, I console myself
by escaping, into the wondrous world of the imagination,
through the printed word,
books are fast becoming my solace.
My imagination sets me free, from the hum-drum,
brings stories to life,
through the words of others,
who expertly convey them -
authors who paint the canvas,
make us love and hate characters,
feel their pain and rejoice at their accomplishments,
back the underdogs
and hope for the villains to receive their due comeuppance.
Reading can open a whole new world,
to those who take the time to let themselves get absorbed,
it can be a brilliant ability,
to calm the dullness of an unfruitful, even dreary routine,
to give yourself a bit of time each day,
to be taken away,
see what alternative life you could have been living
and hope all ends well.
Is ego your amigo
And your id somewhere hid
Super- ego , super hero ?
Can you find out what it did
Why split it to a trio
So make one become a three
I don’t think I’m that complex
I’m just a simple me.
I quietly ponder...wondering,
wishing, fed up of worrying,
not knowing but fearing,
something may be a warning
things may be about to go terribly wrong.
There's always something,
that something which is not quite right,
something that seems to stick out to my senses,
like a metaphorical sore thumb...
quick, sound the siren! something isn't right,
it can't be! not again?!
the physical pain may barely or not at all even be felt;
yet my brain screeches at me, tugging at my attention,
swearing that what I've noticed, felt, detected
is a clear sign of some sort of impending doom -
there must be SOMETHING wrong.
I must act now, mustn't I? but what will this mean?
there are so many different types of pain,
the potential hanging over me can be dizzying.
If only I didn't keep worrying, about the 'what if's?',
seemingly presume the worst could always be possible,
no matter what I come across,
big or small,
it all takes a tiring toll.
Please don't think me foolish
as I talk about my day
I've been here and there
and then I'll be on my way
Please don't think me foolish
as we wander though the place
observing pretty details there
as of such made of lace.
Treasure can be lost and found
said the pirate to his lady
Like a coin in sand in time
asked the lady to her pirate
Of course but with a map
answered the pirate to his lady
Do I read the map wisely
questioned the lady to her pirate
Always was the reply.
'Hello there mate, I see you're new,
Don't worry, you'll soon settle.
Take in the atmospheric view
And I'll put on the kettle.'
'Oh thanks, I'm gasping for a tea!
What month is it, November?
Apart from flashbacks baffling me
There's not much I remember.'
'I was the same on my first day
But rehabilitation
And time in this place where we stay
Brings back lost information.
I left a trench and never did
Return from foreign regions,
Some fought, some died, some even hid
Among our British legions.
My final vision is the blood
Of Henderson and Sanders
And laying face-down in the mud
When I got hit in Flanders.'
'But that was many years ago
And you look barely twenty!
Is this the place where heroes go?
Is this the land of plenty?'
'Well, someone has to pay the toll
And numbers I can't tally,
Come on now son, let's take a stroll
Across the sunlit valley.
Although we're still in uniform
We have no other duty
Than resting where the poppies form
Enchanting plains of beauty.'
©
It remains a perplexing thought and I enjoyed your take on it
Thanks Sandy
I'm going to hide me nuts
It may actually have been 'The dwindling of the elves' - good old JRR :kitty:
Bye for now my friends
Have you ever seen the mission impossible squirrel?:D
Is poetry an art?
Is poetry dead?
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Is poetry a dead language?
Is poetry a language?
Is poetry dead?
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Who speaketh this nonesense?
Start the CPR
Revive this curmudgeonly art
It's ALIVE!
If I had magic powers
I'd fly upon the wing
And spend the waking hours
Away from everything.
Above a lonely ocean
I'd smoothly soar and rise
Or plummet in slow motion
Beneath a bridge of sighs.
I’d float over a spire,
Gaze down on distant grass,
Then circle even higher
Where clouds of silence pass.
Allowing flight to show me
What only birds can know,
With all the world below me
My joy would overflow.
©